


Bright mane forever/shall shine like the gold

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Kink Meme, Roleplay, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She haunts them both, and they no longer try to keep her shade away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright mane forever/shall shine like the gold

The glint of steel, and he tenses. It’s all instinct; Jaime Lannister is a soldier, a warrior, and his body will never forget how to react to the sight of a blade. But the moment passes; soft, cool fingertips stroke the sides of his neck, and he breathes.   
  
“I’ve worn this beard for some time now...I’m quite used to it,” he mumbles as Sansa spreads a bit of lather over the hair on his chin. “I’d go so far as to say that I’ve grown attached...perhaps it’s best to leave it.”   
  
She sets the blade down and takes his face between her hands, ignoring the thick soap that sluices through her fingers.    
  
“Please let me, Jaime,” Sansa implores in that tone, that soft, airy, yearning tone that she knows he cannot refuse.    
  
Dry lips brush his temple, and her thumbs rub circles over his cheeks. All the while, she whispers like a mild but insistent breeze, “Please. Please.:”   
  
He sighs and nods. Her sweet face spreads into a jubilant smile when she takes the blade back in her hand, and Jaime forces himself not to consider why it troubles him so.   
  
She works quickly and deftly, concluding her efforts with a deep, satisfied sigh. Jaime closes his eyes to keep from looking at hers, but he responds when she presses her lips to his newly-shaven skin, kissing a circle around his mouth before settling there.    
  
“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs, and he opens his eyes just a sliver- the hunger building behind her crystal-blue irises overwhelms him, and he nips at her lower lip before dragging his tongue over hers and encircling her waist with a strong, taut arm.   
  
Her hands grasp for purchase in his hair; he hasn’t taken a knife to it in weeks, and it curls about his face and neck, reaching nearly to his shoulders.    
  
“Perhaps you could take the blade to this as well,” he smirks into her mouth as he gives his locks a toss. “Getting difficult to fit it under my helmet...”   
  
But she pulls harder (as he knew she would), eyes of burning ice flashing and flickering.   
  
“No.” She frees herself from his arm but keeps her lips on his face, kissing up his jawline as she moves behind to comb her hands through his thick golden hair, catching it between her fingers.    
  
“I like it long like this. You won’t cut it, will you?”    
  
A beat of silence, which she fills by sweeping the longer bits of hair from the back of his neck and trailing hot kisses along the nape. “Please, Jaime. Please.”   
  
He nods, slower than before, and a heavy knot twists his stomach.   
  
Sansa walks back around his chair and gestures to him to rise. He wears no tunic, and her nimble fingers make quick work of his breeches. When he stands before her in nothing but his smallclothes, he reaches his left hand to touch her, but she steps away. “Not yet.”    
  
She strips the laces of her dress and shimmies out of her shift. His cock pulses at the sight of her nearly-naked, the long white lines of her body tinted gold by the candlelight- but she just shakes her head, smiling softly, eyes full to bursting (he knows what fills them, and it vexes him, that it should hurt at all).    
  
“Not yet.”   
  
Quiet steps carry her across the chamber, where she retrieves a pair of finely-made robes: crimson silk, with gold embroidery. He’s seen their like before, and the knot tightens within him when he thinks of the way the fabric would cling to full breasts and ample hips, the gold of the stitching a perfect match to the gold of long, lush curls...   
  
Sansa slips the smaller robe over her shoulders and cinches it at the waist before handing him its fellow. She lifts her brow, and he knows that this is the moment; if he is going to refuse, going to protest, it will have to be now.   
  
He puts on the robe.   
  
When he reclines on the bed, he catches a strong hint of fragrance on the linens- lemons and rosewater, and he nearly chokes. But then Sansa crawls into his arms, her soft kisses warm and pleasurable on the bare skin of his face.    
  
He tries at first to shift her toward the hardness between his legs, but she resists, and he remembers. Instead, he lets her guide his left hand down to her wetness, holding fast to his wrist when he tries to apply more pressure.   
  
“Soft,” she whispers as she sucks his earlobe, her hand stroking his hair, the scent of lemon and rosewater clinging to them both.    
  
Jaime knows what she wants, and he knows how to give it. His body was made to respond to his sister’s; he can replicate her every touch, her every kiss, her every sound. And in spite of the hurt (it lingers like a dull muscle ache, and he’s determined to ignore it until it disappears), he finds a perverse thrill in discovering how Cersei would kiss Sansa’s neck, how Cersei would suckle her breasts, how Cersei would lick between her legs.    
  
He drives ( _they drive_ ) Sansa nearly to her peak, and then he pulls his head out from between her legs and plunges his fingers back in, starting with Jaime’s rhythm, but quickly adjusting.    
  
“Say my name.” He kisses her before she answers- lips pursed to imitate a smaller mouth.    
  
She comes apart, Cersei’s name on her lips, her hands knotted in his long hair, her mouth brushing across smooth cheeks.    
  
And then she allows him to thrust into her, the sensation burning and blinding and urgent, lemon and rosewater in his nostrils, scarlet silk on his back.    
  
His release comes quickly, and it’s Cersei’s name that he pants against Sansa’s lips. But there’s nothing but understanding in her eyes when she pushes his hair back behind his ear and moves to let him share her pillow.


End file.
